


Codename SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up)

by TheCookieOfDoom



Category: American Assassin (2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Murphy's Law, NSA Agent Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Relationship, Rescue Missions, Sarcasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 17:41:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18855889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieOfDoom/pseuds/TheCookieOfDoom
Summary: “This is Stilinski. The brainiac from the NSA who tracked this sonuvabitch down for us,” Hurley announced, pounding on the kid’s back and making him stumble forward. He looked about seventeen years old and entirely out of his element. Rapp was not impressed. “You’ll be working with him on the ground.”“Hell no.”“Hell yes.” The kid—Stilinski—smirked at him, way too cocky for someone who looked like he’d be more at home in the middle of a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. “Get used to it. I’m your ground control, baby.” Rapp hated him already.





	Codename SNAFU (Situation Normal, All Fucked Up)

“This is Stilinski. The brainiac from the NSA who tracked this sonuvabitch down for us,” Hurley announced, pounding on the kid’s back and making him stumble forward. He looked about seventeen years old and entirely out of his element. Rapp was not impressed. “You’ll be working with him on the ground.” 

“Hell no.” 

“Hell yes.” The kid—Stilinski—smirked at him, way too cocky for someone who looked like he’d be more at home in the middle of a Dungeons and Dragons campaign. “Get used to it. I’m your ground control, baby.” Rapp hated him already. 

***

The rest of the day was exhausting, as Stilinski briefed Mitch on what he had found, going off on way too many tangents and using way too many pop culture references. More than once Mitch thought about shooting the kid just to shut him up because his mouth just would not stop movie. It would be impressive if it weren’t so goddamned  _ annoying _ . 

Hurley, of course, already had all the details. He just enjoyed watching Mitch suffer after blindsiding him with this assignment.

Mitch was techy enough to know that—from what he’d been able to glean through the constant babble—what Stilinski did took no small amount of genius; he was grudgingly impressed. Which meant Stilinski had to ruin that immediately, of course. 

“We need codenames!” he said, clapping his hands together sharply.

“Oh god, here we go,” Hurley mumbled. Even he was starting to get a headache from the rambling.  _ Not so funny when he’s happening to you, is he, you old bastard?  _

“Rapp, given what Hurley’s told me about your track record, you’ll be SNAFU.”

“Get fucked, Stilinski.”

“You first.” The brat was just juvenile enough to stick his tongue out at him. He squeaked and ducked for cover when Mitch suddenly had a knife in his hand and threw it at him. The blade embedded itself six inches above where the top of Stiles’ head previously was. When he stood back up he looked at the quivering knife with wide eyes. “You missed.”

Mitch smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t miss.” To Hurley, he said, “We need to talk.” Hurley followed him out of the room probably for the sole purpose of getting a break from Stiles, who returned to his computer, glowering at the screen the entire time. 

***

“I can’t work with him.”

“Really.  _ You  _ think  _ he’s  _ unprofessional.” Hurley shook his head, astonished. “Welcome to my life, son.” 

“I still get my job done.”

“So does he.” Hurley smirked. “Accept it, Rapp. This is happening whether you like it or not. In fact, it’s happening especially because I know you won’t.”

***

Whatever. So, he had to work with the kid. Rapp had dealt with worse things than a sarcastic kid—and God, was he this bad when he started? Stilinski was giving him some new perspective and sympathy for Hurley—that never shut up. 

When it came down to the job, Stiles was actually great. He put away his snide remarks—mostly anyway—and put himself to work with a single-minded intensity that Rapp could admire. Before long he was getting sent off to deal with the target. It would be easy, clean, and over before the guy even knew what hit him. 

Who was Rapp fooling. Had his life ever gone according to plan?

***

The information was good, that wasn’t the problem. No, the problem was that there was more for Stiles to dig up, more than one head to the snake, and he didn’t find them all until both Hurley and Rapp were already gone. Because of the nature of this mission, they were a small force. Just the three of them, with Kennedy on standby at the American Embassy in Paris in the event something needed to be smoothed over. With Rapp’s habit of leaving witnesses, it was likely she would be needed. 

When Stiles discovered a third attack brewing there was no one for him to call. Neither Hurley or Rapp answered, still caught up in their own missions, and this wasn’t something that could wait. 

“Do or die,” Stiles said under his breath. He snapped his computer closed and grabbed a Glock 17 from the case on the table, along with three magazines. Cringing, he loaded the gun and stuck it in the back of his pants, able to hear his dad yelling at him for it all the way across the ocean. If his dad ever found out about this gross mishandling of the weapon he would never hear the end of it. The spare magazines went into his cargo pocket. 

***

Rapp got back before Hurley, his part of the mission finished cleanly. He took a certain amount of pride in his work—even more so when he beat the old bastard in terms of efficiency. 

Their temporary base of operations was empty. The first thing Mitch noticed was the silence. This was Stilinski’s first time on a mission, and Mitch found it hard to believe Stilinski wouldn’t be pestering him for details like a goddamn interrogator. 

There weren’t a whole lot of places for Stilinski to be. Mitch checked the few rooms anyway, his Glock 17 drawn in case of a threat, because the only thing that could silence Stiles had to be a strip of duct tape and a set of handcuffs. 

When Mitch circled back out into the main room he noticed something he’s missed before: there was a folded up piece of paper left on top of Stiles’ computer. 

_ If you’re reading this, I’m probably dead.  _

_ No really, don’t scoff at me. There was more than two attacks planned. No one was answering their phones and I couldn’t just leave it alone. I went to the address at the bottom. Hopefully I’m still there, I dunno, they may have taken me somewhere else once they realized their location was compromised.  _

_ Rapp, if you’re reading this, I need you to set aside your reptilian ways and be the Hufflepuff I know you can be. Bring my body back to my father. Or find him and tell him I’m sorry, at least, even if you can’t tell him the truth about what happened to me. And that he needs to take care of himself since I won’t be around to do it for him.  _

_ There’s a nuclear bomb in the game now. Think of it as the world’s deadliest game of hot potato. It’s changing hands at 11:15pm and I couldn’t get a solid ID on the buyer. Yeah, now you know why I couldn’t just wait for someone to come back. I really wasn’t meant to be a desk jockey, I can’t stand waiting around. Guess I know how Rapunzel felt all the time, huh?  _

_ Get the nuke, Rapp. I really don’t want to have died in vain here. That would be so lame. I want heroic sacrifice status AT LEAST, I think I fucking earned it here. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.  _

“Jesus Christ,” Rapp said, dropping the note back onto the table. The kid wasn’t even here and he was still getting on his last nerve. He sent a quick text to Hurley, short and simple. 

_ Stilinski’s gone, and now there’s a bomb. I’m going after the kid. _

He didn’t wait for a reply. 

***

The good news was, Rapp found Stilinski alive. The bad news, it was because Mitch had gotten apprehended and tied up right alongside him. Stilinski was not impressed. There was more good news, though: Rapp was used to getting kidnapped, and as such was very good as escaping. 

All it took was five minutes alone in the room serving as their cell, a dislocated thumb, and he was snaking out of the cuffs. Stilinski looked like he might be sick when he watched Rapp pop his joint back into place, or it could have just been from the severe beating he’d taken. In the hours since he’d been taken it looked like they put him through the wringer. Rapp’s training had accounted for torture; he doubted Stilinski’s had done the same. 

Getting Stilinski free was easier said than done. He was strung up on a meat hook and hanging from his wrists, which were cuffed together. He was just barely balancing on the balls of his feet, having to pull himself up to breathe. 

“Did you get the bomb?” Stilinski asked when Rapp peeled off the duct tape covering his mouth. 

“Not yet.” Stilinski groaned pitifully. Rapp was saved from having to listen to his chastisement when he lifted Stilinski enough to get him off the hook, putting pressure on his ribs. Hopefully they were just bruised instead of broken. 

“Told you to get the bomb.”

“I thought you knew my track record.” Stilinski laughed at that, a pained wheeze.

“You don’t follow orders. Forgot.” 

“Let’s get out of here.” To his credit, Stilinski put on a brave face and tried his best to act like he didn’t feel the wounds inflicted on him. 

They headed out into the hall, and Rapp took out the first guard he saw, snapping his neck and divesting him of his weapons. Stilinski searched the body for a key to the cuffs while Rapp kept watch, taking out two more guards. 

“Aha!” The cuffs fell away. Stilinski got up and limped his way after Rapp, following close behind. He grabbed a gun off one of the bodies they passed. 

“You know how to use that?” Rapp asked. 

“My dad’s the sheriff of my home town. We’ve been going to the range since I was like thirteen.” Stiles ejected the magazine to check how many bullets were left then snapped it back in, pulling back the slide just enough to see the glint of brass in the chamber. 

“Alright, then.” 

***

Just as they were getting out of the compound, reinforcements caught up with them. Stilinski shoved Rapp out of the way when the gunfire started, echoing down the halls and making his ears ring. He shouted when he took several bullets intended for Rapp in his back.

“Dammit, Stilinski!” Rapp pulled him to cover, a bullet grazing his bicep. Rapp barely acknowledged it, leaning around the corner to return fire. He didn’t waste ammo, taking shots only when he knew he could make them. The others weren’t so smart; Rapp waited until there was a pause, signaling the men reloading. He moved fully into the hall and unloaded his magazine on all six of them, one bullet for each. Not the cleanest shot he’d ever made, but it got the job done. The two still alive were writhing in pain on the ground. 

Rapp reached down and wrenched Stilinski up, no time for gentleness. He didn’t complain as Rapp dragged him out of the compound and into an alley

“What the hell were you thinking, Stilinski?” Rapp asked when the young man half-collapsed, half sat, on the damp ground. 

“It’s Stiles,” he reminded, giving Rapp a bloody, shaky smile. He pressed his hand to his abdomen; when he pulled it away, it was stained red. He could hear Rapp swear under his breath, stripping out of his own shirt to hold to the wound and mop up the blood, trying to staunch the flow. 

“Don’t die and I’ll call you whatever you want.”

“Daddy,” Stiles mumbled.

“What?”

“Gotta call me daddy.”

“Sure.” Stiles was in gruesome shape, bloodied and bruised after being tortured for hours. He needed more than a t-shirt and hope, but Mitch didn’t know if the safe house would be safe. If Stiles had been compromised. 

“Didn’t tell them anything.” Stiles grabbed the front of Mitch’s shirt, his grip weak. “Didn’t say a damn thing. Bastards couldn’t make me talk. I didn’t.”

“I’m proud of you, Stiles,” Mitch said honestly. The kid laughed, wet and painful. 

“Damn, must really be dying for you to say my name.” And then his eyes rolled back. 

“Stiles!” Mitch pressed his ear to Stiles’ chest, able to hear his breaths and the erratic beat of his heart. Still alive, then. Mitch didn’t know how long he would stay that way. 

Hauling a mauled corpse through the streets of Paris was not the most subtle thing in the world. Knowing full well that Hurley was going to kill him for the clusterfuck this mission had become,  Mitch threw caution to the wind and did it anyway. Stiles was heavier than he expected from looking at him, hardly the skinny geek he pretended to be. Under his graphic tees and flannel he was toned with lean muscle, and muscle was heavy. Luckily Mitch was strong enough to carry 160 pounds of deadweight—getting lighter by the second as he bled out, leaving a literal trail of blood behind them—keeping to alleys and less populated streets in an attempt to maintain a low profile. As much as he could, anyway. At least it was the middle of the night, not that that counted for much in the city of light. 

There was no time to case the safe house, make sure it wasn’t being monitored. Mitch was skipping all the important best practices for survival and going straight to the door, the back of his neck prickling with dread. Hopefully just paranoia.  _ It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you. _

Stiles groaned when Mitch dropped him onto the bed. Under it was a briefcase full of medical supplies, but Stiles needed more than what he could do. While getting out what he needed with one hand, Mitch called Hurley with the other. 

“Hurley, we need a medic,” Mitch said, tearing open packets of gauze pads with his teeth. 

“Where the hell are you?”

“The safe house. Stiles is injured.”

“Dammit, Rapp! You were supposed to wait for reinforcements,” Hurley growled. 

“Extenuating circumstances. I improvised.”

“We’ll be there in ten.” Hurley hung up and Mitch tossed the phone aside, working much more efficiently with two hands. Stiles was rescued sans shirt, making it easier to get at his wounds. The cuts were superficial. It was the bullet in his stomach that Mitch was concerned about, and another two in his shoulder.

Mitch packed the shoulder wounds full of Quikclot and did the same with his stomach, kept pressure on it to staunch the bleeding, and hoped for the best. The clock ticked down slowly while Stiles’ life bled away like sand through an hourglass. 

***

Mitch was forced to leave Stiles when the medics got there, and Hurley made him go get cleaned up. There was nothing more he could do just standing around covered in blood and worrying. Mitch didn’t even deny that he was worried, and that more than anything showed just how concerned he was. 

Even from across the room Mitch could hear the metallic clink of the bullet being dropped into a metal dish. At some point a medic came to look at him and he brushed her off, able to tend to his own wounds. He was familiar with the process by now, and Stiles had taken most of the fire. They would fight about it later, once he pulled through, because Mitch was certain he would. He wouldn’t accept the alternative.

“You said you’d call me whatever I want.” 

“I did.” Mitch wondered if he was about to regret that. Stiles licked his lips, blushed, and shyly asked,

“How about whenever I want? Like, say, next time you have a free evening?” Mitch grinned. The kid  _ did  _ almost die for him. The least Mitch owed him was a drink....

“About a week from now?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“It’s a date.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick thing. I've ben working on it like all day. please ignore the vagueness about the actual mission because that is not the important part here, and also missions are really fkn hard to write lmao. Handwaving everything and idec


End file.
